As Otis began laughing again in his silent way, Townhouse just shook his head. He was disinclined to do it. I could tell. And if it were just the two of us, he probably would have sent me on my way, unsatisfied. But Maurice was staring at me now with a look of borrowed indignation.
—If you won’t hit him, I will, he said.
There he goes again, I thought. Maurice just didn’t seem to understand the chain of command. To make matters worse, when he volunteered to hit me, he did so with just enough bravado to imply that maybe the reason Townhouse was stalling was because he wasn’t up to the task.
Townhouse turned to Maurice very slowly.
—Maurice, he said, just because you’re my cousin doesn’t mean I’m not willing to shut you the fuck up.
That put so much color into Maurice’s face that his freckles almost disappeared. Then he was the one gazing down the street wishing it was simpler times.
It made me feel a little sorry for him, watching him get humiliated like that in front of the rest of us. But I also could tell that through his injudiciousness, he had raised Townhouse’s temperature, which was just as well.
Sticking my chin out toward Townhouse, I pointed to it.
—Just give me a pop, T. What’ve you got to lose?
When I called him T, Townhouse grimaced like I knew he would.
Showing disrespect toward Townhouse was the last thing I wanted to do, but the challenge before me was to get him to take that first swing. Once he took the first one, I knew the rest would come easy. Because even if he didn’t gripe about the switching, I’m sure he still carried a bit of a grudge.
—Come on, I said, intending to call him T one more time.
Before I got the chance, he delivered. The punch landed right where it was supposed to, but it only knocked me a few steps back, like he hadn’t put everything into it.
—There you go, I said encouragingly. That’s a pretty good one. But this time, why don’t you give it some of the old Joe Louis.
And that’s what he did. I mean, I didn’t even see it coming. One second I’m standing there egging him on, and the next second I’m lying on the sidewalk aware of that strange aroma that you only smell when your skull has been rattled.
Planting both hands on the concrete, I pushed myself off the ground, rose to my feet, and went back to the hitting spot—just like Emmett.
The young teens were practically jumping up and down.
—Give it to him, Townhouse, they shouted.
—He asked for it, muttered Maurice.
—Mother Mary, said Otis in sustained disbelief.
Though all four spoke at once, I could hear each of them as clearly as if they’d spoken alone. But Townhouse couldn’t. He couldn’t hear any of them at all because he wasn’t on 126th Street. He was back at Salina. Back in that moment that he’d sworn he’d never think about again: taking Ackerly’s beating as the rest of us watched. It was the fire of justice that was burning through Townhouse now. The fire of justice that appeases the injured spirit and sets the record straight.
The third blow was an uppercut that put me flat on the pavement.
It was a thing of beauty, I tell you.
Townhouse took two steps back, heaving a little from the exertion, the sweat running down his forehead. Then he took another step back like he needed to, like he was worried that if he were any closer, he would hit me again and again, and might not be able to stop.
I gave him the friendly wave of one crying uncle. Then being careful to take my time so the blood wouldn’t rush from my head, I got back on my feet.
—That’s the stuff, I said with a smile, after spitting some blood on the sidewalk.
—Now we’re square, said Townhouse.
—Now we’re square, I agreed, and I stuck out my hand.
Townhouse stared at it for a moment. Then he took it in a firm grip and looked me eye to eye—like we were the presidents of two nations who had just signed an armistice after generations of discord.
At that moment, we were both towering over the boys, and they knew it. You could tell from the expressions of respect on the faces of Otis and the teens, and the expression of dejection on the face of Maurice.
I felt bad for him. Not man enough to be a man, or child enough to be a child, not black enough to be black, or white enough to be white, Maurice just couldn’t seem to find his place in the world. It made me want to tussle his hair and assure him that one day everything was going to be all right. But it was time to move along.
Letting go of Townhouse’s hand, I gave him a tip of the hat.
—See you round, pardner, I said.